


the urge is animal

by Merlinnn



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: BDSM elements, Car Accidents, Car Sex, Crash 1996, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, M/M, Symporophilia, slight case fic, somewhat unsafe kink practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29118141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlinnn/pseuds/Merlinnn
Summary: '“Reid,” he said in warning, unable to control the hitch of breath at the end. He looked at him again and Reid’s eyes were set in determination.“Hotch,” he said, hand gripping the edge of his seat, “Crash the car.”'Their unsub chases his victims off the road, forces them to flip their cars and crash into trees. He gets off on the fear and the excitement, the uncertainty. Reid thinks he knows how that feels.(Somewhat inspired by 4x04 'Paradise')
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid
Comments: 2
Kudos: 80





	the urge is animal

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! 
> 
> First of all, this fic deals with symphorophilia - arousal from "staging and watching a tragedy" - intentionally putting yourself into a dangerous, life-or-death situation in order to be aroused. If this isn't your cup of tea, don't read, and please don't try at home!!
> 
> On saying that, it is depicted mildly but is definitely still risky behaviour. They also reference the film 'Crash' (1996) which deals with this kink, but you don't need to watch it for this fic - all you need to know is that the main character discovers that he becomes aroused by watching car crashes and eventually crashes his own car.
> 
> Title comes from 'NOT HUMAN' by ionnalee <3

All things considered, it had hardly been their toughest case. None of them were nice or fun to think about, but there’d been no children involved. And Reid considered that a win. Yet it had still been tense and frustrating, the clock pressing on them as they realised the unsub had a new victim already, and that he’d be torturing them even as they spoke. It was one of the toughest things to contend; knowing that somewhere a life was getting destroyed and ripped apart whilst they deliberated endlessly in the police station. 

Reid felt as though they would never be fast enough or prepared enough to stop it.

The latest crime scene hadn’t left many clues, and the crime techs were taking their time processing it all. His M.O appeared to be related to the empty back roads crisscrossing the rural countryside, and each of them had their speculation over what the significance could be. What they  _ did  _ know was he drove a truck of some sort and ran his victims off the road before abducting them. He’d torture them, and when he was done ruthlessly kill them. 

They were still processing the third victim’s car by the side of the road, and as Reid peered through the back window and saw the baby seat and dangling toys, he felt himself exhale roughly. 

Thank God that on this night, the baby had stayed with her father. It was a small relief, but a relief nonetheless. He stepped back around towards the front of the car and opened the crumpled passenger side, gloved hand sliding down to retrieve a bunch of leaflets from the pocket of the door. They were a host of pamphlets for the new housing development on the outskirts of town, and Reid passed them over to Morgan. 

“I think he’s angry about the countryside being taken over,” said Reid, his mind already connecting the dots. 

Martha Daley, their second victim, had recently moved into one of the new houses on the estate, and as his mind ran through the victimology they were establishing, he could almost see the tendrils connecting together. Sarah Johnson, the first victim, had been looking to move house with her fianc é. 

“What’re you thinking over there, Reid?” asked Morgan, slipping the leaflets into an evidence bag..

“I’m thinking we should phone Garcia. Look into farmers who had their protests about the development overruled, or who had land bought out,” he said, and Morgan nodded before stepping away and flipping his phone open. 

Reid stayed where he was, gazing over the dark tarmac and the crushed metal before him. The car hadn’t rolled this time, instead it had been forcefully ran off the road into a tree, the bonnet wrapped around the thick trunk. Glass was strewn over the grassy verge and Reid could see the trail of tire marks leading off the road. 

He felt adrenaline creep up his spine, and if he closed his eyes he was sure he would be able to hear the squealing tires, the shattering glass, the car spinning out of control. He swallowed heavily, blinking his eyes open to see Morgan flipping his phone closed.

“We’re gonna meet Hotch at the station. Garcia thinks she has something,” he said, already moving towards the SUV. 

Reid gave a curt nod, tongue wetting his dry lips as he began following. His whole mouth had gone dry and he felt his palms clammy in his pockets. He’d be glad to be away from the scene of the crash. 

-

Reid’s theory wasn’t far off - their unsub was angry about the new housing development, but not because he was a farmer. In a twist no one saw coming, his mother had been buried on the plot of land they’d scouted for the houses, and with them being built he could no longer visit the grave he had made for her. 

It was a success; a calm takedown in which not a single bullet was fired and the unsub was taken into custody, whilst Rebecca Small was reunited with her husband and newborn daughter. She was traumatised undoubtedly, but alive. And for Reid that was enough. If you couldn’t accept the smallest of victories then there would be no hope left within you.

There was still a fair bit of paperwork needed to be done on the ground - tying up the loose ends of the case - and since they’d driven the few hours over the border to West Virginia’s wilderness rather than flying, the team was hurrying. 

Unsurprisingly for a rural sheriff’s station, everything took twice as long as it should’ve done, and Hotch was getting more and more frustrated. A prisoner transfer was still being waited on for the unsub, and he didn’t want to leave before they arrived. The station wasn’t really prepared to be holding onto very dangerous and violent criminals. 

Reid was flipping through the final case files, making sure that the evidence they had personally logged was all in order, when Rossi popped his head around the conference room door.

“We’re all checked out from the motel and just waiting for you guys to finish up,” he said, looking up to where Hotch was reading through and signing off on stacks of paper.

“JJ back from the local newspaper too?” he asked, and Rossi nodded. 

Hotch gazed at the tidy room, their endless coffee cups and piles of paper and files having been suitably binned and organised as required. He glanced at Reid, who’d lifted his gaze from the evidence logs to listen in on the conversation.

“I’d rather not leave before the transfer gets here,” said Hotch decisively, and perhaps it was the innate control freak in him but he really needed to see the unsub safely removed from the rickety building they considered a station. 

Rossi’s face looked momentarily crestfallen but he recovered instantly, and smiled in understanding. Hotch flicked his wrist to look at his watch. Just after lunch; a heavy foot on the gas and they’d be able to get home by late evening if they were to leave now. With a sigh, he looked back at Reid and then to Rossi.

“If it’s okay with Reid, we can stay here and wait for the transfer. Get the rest of the team on the road and head home,” he said, turning to look at Reid at the same time as Rossi did. Reid shrugged his shoulders.

“Sure,” he said. 

He wasn’t in a particular hurry to get back - the only thing waiting for him was a hefty book analysing Jungian theory in modern American art. It wasn’t exactly a passion for him but he was suddenly interested in the application of Jung in various media. Rossi smiled gratefully.

“I’ll put your go bags in the second car,” he said before setting off at a fast pace. Hotch turned to Reid with a raised eyebrow.

“Sure you’re alright with it?” he asked and Reid gave a minute frown before nodding again.

“Yeah it’s okay,” he confirmed, and Hotch accepted that with another word, gaze lingering briefly before moving on.

-

Admittedly, by 5:30pm Reid was beginning to have his doubts about his choice. The transfer was only 15 minutes away and he was feeling jittery. He’d spent the day drinking cup after cup of bad coffee just for something to do, having finished the paperwork quickly and even managing to write up his own debrief. 

He had a well worn copy of Daphne du Maurier’s  _ Rebecca _ in his bag that he’d brought for the journey, and had deliberately restrained from finishing. But he’d finished it now, and was sat as patiently as absolutely possible, leg still bouncing. Hotch had been writing up his own debrief, but naturally his was lengthier as Unit Chief and he’d appeared disinclined to deal with Reid’s natural ramblings. 

Half an hour later they were fast on the road, Hotch’s foot pressed insistently on the gas pedal and Reid’s leg still bouncing in the footwell.

“You alright?” asked Hotch, voice quiet as he glanced at Reid’s wobbling knee, and Reid almost jumped at the unexpected noise.

“I finished my book,” he explained before turning to look at Hotch, “Not that it’d be light enough to read anyway.” 

A smile crawled over the side of Hotch’s lips.

“I did give you the option of leaving with the others,” he said, and Reid did shudder then.

“Packed in beside Morgan and Rossi in the backseat? I don’t think so,” he said, and Hotch raised an eyebrow.

“Not that you’d know about it, of course,” continued Reid teasingly, nodding his head towards the steering wheel. 

It was a rare day that Hotch didn’t drive, but Hotch didn’t respond to that, instead turning his gaze back to the road. It was empty along the back roads with nothing but their headlights cutting through the gloom. Reid swallowed heavily as he watched Hotch take the corners; he was speeding slightly but he wasn’t being stupid, and Reid trusted his judgement. He’d seen Hotch’s advanced driving qualifications for himself, and yet.

“The way he drove the victims of the road,” he said quietly, voice low, and Hotch tilted his head to indicate he was listening, “I think it was the fear he got off on. Their fear and their adrenaline as they tried to stop themselves crashing.”

Hotch didn’t say a word, rather letting Reid figure out what was on his mind and vocalise it. It wasn’t always a swift process but with nothing except the road ahead, Hotch didn’t mind waiting.

“I wonder what it’d be like to be in a car crash,” he continued, and as Hotch glanced over to him he saw Reid’s tongue sweep over his lip, hands clenching and unclenching on his thigh.

He could see the pent up energy in Reid, and wondered wildly why he didn’t take up jogging. For someone with an overactive mind, physical activity might do him good. Hotch was drawn from his useless thoughts as Reid’s voice pitched lower.

“Do you think it’d be scary, or exciting?” he asked finally, looking over at Hotch with an earnest, inquiring expression. 

But Hotch had years of profiling under his beltand knew Reid as well as anyone. He could see the undercurrent of his question; self-doubt and eagerness simmering equally under the surface. Hotch blinked over at him slowly, wondering where the question came from.

“Both, I think,” he said, his own voice soft in the quiet of the car, “I guess you’d feel one and then the other.”

“Hm,” was all Reid said, hand digging into the flesh of his thigh. 

Unbidden, Hotch saw images startling through his mind; Reid’s long legs splayed, bruises forming over the delicate flesh of inner thigh; the planes of his stomach and his jutting hipbones jerking upwards in urgency. 

It had been so long since then, and as with every other time they’d successfully swept it under the rug and pretended nothing had even happened. They were good at doing that, as it turned out. Hotch let out a heavy exhale and had no idea why he’d thought of it. He glanced to Reid’s face, as though he would somehow be able to read his mind, but Reid still looked troubled.

And Reid was troubled, he just wasn’t quite sure why. He couldn’t get the image of that final crash out of his mind; the metal bent and wrangled against the tree, steam rising from the bonnet, the smell of burning tires and lingering ozone on the wet road. 

And then, eyes sliding to Hotch in the driver’s seat; the press of Hotch’s tongue in his mouth, his broad hands down the smooth skin of Reid’s back. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to eradicate the memories from his mind. He’d barely thought of it since the last time and didn’t know why it was surfacing now, why he couldn’t empty his mind. He wanted something to focus on. Something big and complicated like his hefty mathematics textbooks from undergrad - anything to make his mind just focus on something else. He dug his nails into his thighs as best he could through the layer of clothing, and opened his eyes to the road drawing ahead under the headlight beam. 

“Reid?” asked Hotch, and Reid felt himself pulled right back to the crime scene, to Morgan across the crushed roof of the car. 

Reid felt his breath leaden his chest as thoughts rose in his mind unchecked, pulse thumping a beat faster. What was he thinking? He nipped at his lower lip, mentally stumbling over which words to use before opening his mouth.

“Have you ever watched the film Crash?” he asked finally, feeling a blush run through his cheeks.

“The Sandra Bullock one? From 2004?” responded Hotch, eyes narrowing in confusion as his mind raced through the possibilities of where on earth Reid was going with this. 

“No,” said Reid, looking resolutely through the windscreen, “The 1996 one. Directed by David Cronenberg. It’s pretty unknown outside of cult circles, I guess.”

Hotch felt his breath speed up as another memory slid through his mind; a young version of himself, very recently graduated from law school and trying desperately to get work with the prosecutor’s office. It had been a lazy Saturday with old college friends; a joint he’d declined and a warm beer held between his thighs, Mike sliding a VHS he’d gotten from a friend into the player. He remembered the film, sober as he was, remembered not  _ quite  _ getting it while Mike and Melissa laughed at it beside him; remembered picking up the nondescript box with the scrawl of a secondhand recording along the spine:  _ Crash, 1996. _

Hotch swallowed heavily, hands tightening reflexively against the steering wheel.

“Yeah I remember it. Watched it with some friends from college once,” he said, eyes sliding over to Reid, who sat completely still, shoulders tense from the effort.

“Why?” asked Hotch gently, voice barely a whisper as he glanced from Reid to the road and back again. 

He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted that answer, his mind already piecing Reid’s thinking process together. In the hazy way of a memory, Hotch remembered the ending of the film; the man and his wife fucking on the central reservation, smoke surrounding them. 

He looked at Reid once more, and found Reid looking back. He recognised that look on his face too well; eyes wide with unspoken desires, mouth pursed as his breath came in short, fast exhales. Reid looked too trusting, and far too  _ wanting _ . Hotch’s heart skipped a beat. He knew what Reid was asking, silently, had felt the weight of that gaze after a terrible case when all he wanted was skin next to his.

“Reid,” he said in warning, unable to control the hitch of breath at the end. He looked at him again and Reid’s eyes were set in determination.

“Hotch,” he said, hand gripping the edge of his seat, “crash the car.”

Hotch gave him a wild stare then, heart hammering an unbelievable staccato beneath the seatbelt. He should have started ranting, called Reid insane and reckless and stupid but all he could do was stare at him for half a second, half a heartbeat. Against his better, smarter, more rational self, he felt his slacks tighten over his groin as he felt the adrenaline run through his muscles.

“Crash the car,” repeated Reid, practically commanding Hotch to do so in that quiet whisper, and Hotch was powerless against it. 

He checked his mirror, checked the endless straight road ahead, and with determination pressed hard on the gas, switching feet to the brakes as he jerked hard on the steering wheel, arm muscles bracing against the strain as he felt the tires skid beneath them. Reid yelped beside him, hand pressed to the plastic frame of the door. It was practically happening in slow motion, the power beneath them slipping from Hotch’s control as the wheels spun frantically, car sliding sideways before tipping. 

And then after less than a heartbeat it was over, the car spinning around them as it rolled just once before landing awkwardly back on its tires along the grassy verge, driver side door crushed inwards as it glanced against a tree trunk.

The world was impossibly still and quiet then, the only sound the ringing in Reid’s ears and the heavy panting of Hotch’s breath. Reid twitched his head to the side and checked Hotch over urgently; he was alive, and mostly unharmed. Blood gathered near his hairline where he’d been caught by flying glass, and his arm would be pretty bruised up, but he looked miraculously fine.

“Reid?” asked Hotch roughly, slipping out of his seatbelt to face him. 

Reid looked shaken but unhurt by the car flipping. The windscreen was cracked entirely, with shards of glass scattered over the dashboard from where it had hit the tarmac, and the roof was dented over the central console.

“‘m good,” said Reid, tugging on his own seatbelt and getting free. 

He looked through the broken and bent metal and glass of their SUV and felt his heart hammer in his chest, the adrenaline still coursing through every muscle and nerve. They were both unhurt, and Reid had never felt more  _ alive _ .

“Hotch,” he said, looking over to his superior, and Hotch looked undone. 

His hands were white against his tensed thighs, and his breath was as unstable as Reid’s was. Reid slid over the central console in a swift move, straddling Hotch’s lap as smoothly as he could. Hotch’s attention drew immediately to Reid’s face close to his, Reid’s hands framing his jaw, Reid’s weight settling over his thighs. Reid’s lips on his. It was rough and fast and hot, Hotch’s tongue sliding into Reid’s willing mouth and thrusting against his. 

His hands slid up Reid’s back, pulling at his tangled shirt and slipping under to touch the skin, pressing him closer. Reid’s own hands were tugging at the back of Hotch’s head, the short hair running through his fingers. Hotch gave an undignified grunt then, hips jerking upwards into the weight of Reid settled over him, blood pounding in his ears in the confined space of the driver's seat. Around them the night was silent save their own hitched breath and the smell of burnt rubber drifting over them.

“Hotch please,” whispered Reid, voice low and his breath ghosting over Hotch’s face. 

Hotch thrust his tongue back into Reid’s mouth, nipping at his lower lip roughly as he scratched his nails from shoulder to coccyx and Reid groaned into his mouth. Decisively, Hotch slid his hands to Reid’s crotch and slapped Reid’s helping hands out of the way as he yanked on his belt and unzipped his pants, feeling the hardness barely concealed by his boxers. 

Reid’s head dipped forward, pushing his hips closer into Hotch’s grasp as he palmed him through his boxers. Reid ground down then, needing whatever friction he could find as he pressed himself further into Hotch’s lap, finding his hardness in kind. With an equal sense of urgency, Reid tugged Hotch’s pants open and wormed his hand under the waistband, sweeping over his full length and watching Hotch’s eyes slide closed, brain short circuiting at the feel of Reid’s hand wrapped around his cock. 

With a flurry of awkward movements and rustling fabric, Reid managed to wrench his own stiff cock free from his pants and shifted his hips to drag them together. Hotch groaned once more, automatically moving to take both of them in his hand, thumb swiping at their precome and using it to barely slick his hand. Reid’s forehead pressed into his neck, hands clenched along Hotch’s broad shoulders for balance as Hotch took as much of them both in one thick hand as he could manage, the heat of his palm and the deft stroke of his fingers rendering Reid momentarily speechless. 

Reid began moving almost uncontrollably, bucking up into Hotch’s hot grasp and sliding against Hotch’s dick with every movement, and eventually Hotch’s hand slipped away to cling at Reid’s hip. Hotch thumbed over the prominent hip bone and as Reid slid against him, rubbing against him with every back and forth of his hips, Hotch pressed him closer and jerked up to meet him. 

They found a fast, heady rhythm; Hotch meeting Reid’s every downward stroke with an insistent push upwards, the friction against one another leaving Reid twitching in his lap. It would never be enough. 

With a sense of urgency Hotch tilted Reid backwards until his back hit the steering wheel and pinned him there with his body, forcibly rutting his cock against Reid’s as he felt his muscles quiver with the strain, pushing Reid’s spine into the wheel. Reid slipped his hand between them and with delicate, bony fingers he drew them together and tugged roughly, insistently, Hotch still thrusting upwards. 

Their mouths pressed together once more, Reid’s tongue slipping easily into Hotch’s mouth and tasting that awful coffee, feeling the breathless pant of his name. Hotch felt his muscles tense in his abdomen, his stomach clenching as he felt his mind slip away. He wouldn’t last long, and with his last coherent thought he wrenched Reid’s shirt open and slung his tie over one shoulder as his hips managed one final, staccato thrust before he was shuddering bodily, coming in wet streams over Reid’s exposed chest as his mouth fell open in a silent groan. 

And Reid, eyes wide open watching Hotch come apart under his hand and over his chest felt his back arch over the plastic wheel, hand working faster until only a moment later he was coming too, pushing into his own grip a final time. He watched as his own spend mixed with Hotch's on the flat of his stomach, sliding down his hardened nipples and abdomen. 

“Hotch,” he breathed against his lips, feeling the heat of Hotch’s hands on his hips, bringing him onto his lap as Hotch settled back into the driver’s seat, Reid boneless above him. 

With an authority Hotch didn’t quite yet believe he had back, he spoke against Reid’s mouth.

“That was the stupidest, most reckless and most unprofessional thing we’ve ever done,” he said, and Reid grinned broadly, opening his eyes to take in Hotch’s dilated pupils, barely illuminated by the moon and shattered headlights. 

“Hm, worth it though,” he said, feeling his brain come back to him in a lazy jumble of thoughts. 

He wasn’t sure he was entirely coherent yet; all he could feel was the heat of Hotch below him, holding onto him, around him, the metal bent around their bodies, the cold air drifting through the broken glass. 

“We shouldn’t have done that,” said Hotch, voice quick and breath rushing. 

Reid’s mind swiftly returned to him, recognising the rising panic in Hotch as his hands twitched against Reid’s bare skin.

“Hey, hey, Hotch, breathe,” he instructed, placing his non-sticky palm flat against Hotch’s chest, the fabric of his shirt soft against the skin, “it’s okay,” he reassured, feeling Hotch’s heart steady itself.

“Call 911,” said Reid, voice clear, “we had an accident - you swerved to avoid a deer. We’re still under the Sheriff’s jurisdiction so they’ll probably take us back to the station, okay?” said Reid, hand clasping Hotch’s jaw and forcing him to look at Reid. 

“Okay?” repeated Reid, and Hotch swallowed instinctively - he wasn’t sure he’d ever quite heard Reid sound so authoritative. 

“Yes,” he responded clearly, and Reid stayed looking at him for a beat longer before sliding back into his own seat and zipping his pants back up. 

Hotch pulled his cellphone from his jacket pocket and began dialing. Assured that Hotch wasn’t about to lose his mind, Reid stepped out of the car and popped the trunk, rifling through his go bag to find a dirty shirt with which to wipe his chest. The air was crisp around them, and he felt goosebumps rise over his exposed skin. It was unnaturally still; the car immovable pressed against the tree, wheels bent and windscreen entirely shattered.

Hotch clambered out through the passenger door, pants rezipped but his clothes suitably in disarray. He looked critically over the ruined car and frowned at it.

“It’s a write-off,” he said, and Reid nodded as he opened Hotch’s half-drank water from his go bag, drenched the cloth of yesterday’s shirt in it and wiped it harshly over his skin. 

Feeling only slightly cleaner, he pushed the shirt back into his go bag and buttoned his current shirt back up. 

“We needed new ones anyway,” said Reid, only half jokingly, and he pointedly ignored the daggers Hotch stared into his back.

“They said they’ll be about 45 minutes,” said Hotch finally, and Reid nodded as he shut the trunk and joined Hotch overlooking the car. It was a wreck.

“Sorry,” he said finally, looking at Hotch sincerely. 

It really hadn’t been their smartest idea, and as the adrenaline and rush of orgasm wore off his body, he realised just how close they had been to being properly hurt. He had trusted Hotch, knew he wouldn’t have deliberately hurt them too far, but there were so many uncertainties. For all Reid knew the car could have gone up in flames at any moment. And worst of all, he almost didn’t hate that prickle of danger in his spine. Almost felt himself getting turned on all over again, knowing they’d been so close to actual death.

“Hey,” said Hotch, dragging him from his thoughts, “I made the decision too. It was stupid, but we’re both safe,” he reassuared, wrapping an arm over Reid’s hip and pressing him close to his side in an unfamiliar show of affection.

“We wouldn’t have been truly hurt,” said Hotch softly, refusing to voice the thoughts flashing through his mind; how he couldn’t have been certain, couldn’t have controlled it, how much he’d liked twisting the wheel and  _ losing _ that control to the momentum of the car. 

Reid only hummed beside him, pressing his head to Hotch’s shoulder and feeling Hotch’s thumb run circles over the skin of his side as they watched over the wreck.

Eventually they slid apart, fatigued by the endorphin drop after everything had ended, and suddenly feeling colder than anyone expected. It was late spring and West Virginia was pretty warm, but both felt the sheen of sweat evaporating coldly despite the jackets they’d pulled from the go bags. 

Reid ended up sitting with his back against the rear wheel, carefully brushing the grass for glass shards before settling down and staring over the road. Hotch joined moments later, legs bent at the knee as he pressed his body close to keep warm. They were silent except for the occasional hoot of an owl over the road, and neither were unhappy with the calmness that surrounded them.

“Sorry,” repeated Reid once, whispering into the air an interminable amount of time later, and Hotch heard him, turned to look at him, and saw the self-doubt flit over his features. 

He reached over and pressed their lips together gently, slipping Reid’s mouth open under his own and feeling Reid inhale before drawing away. It was an acceptance and a forgiveness all in one, and he felt Reid’s current anxiety melt away beside them. Then they heard the roar of a car edge closer, and within seconds a distinctive white police car crested the hill and headed towards them.

-

The Sheriff’s department returned them to the same motel they had just vacated, and both Hotch and Reid fell into a tired sleep in separate rooms. Neither had the energy to talk or think or deal with anything as the drop from adrenaline weighed heavy on them. 

The next day, Hotch phoned Strauss early in the morning and then Rossi, who agreed to come collect them only if Hotch bought him a bottle of scotch. Which seemed a small price in order to get them back home. 

They went to the diner over the road and got a late breakfast, Reid talking about the most mundane of things as Hotch shovelled coffee and pancakes into his aching stomach. He’d kill for some real, home-cooked food right about now. Strauss had been less than impressed, but seemingly bought his I-swerved-a-deer excuse without comment, although Hotch severely doubted she ever could have guessed the true reasons they had crashed. He let a shiver run through his body, and Reid paused eating.

“You okay?” he asked, “I can stop talking if you like.”

Reid did stop talking then, and Hotch recognised the look on Reid’s face - the one where he’d missed something and hadn’t noticed a social cue, but he didn’t have the heart to tell Reid that he hadn’t actually minded hearing about the economic workings of back road diners. 

Rossi finally arrived, and Hotch naturally sat in the passenger seat. Reid didn’t actually mind all that much, and automatically headed for the back door anyway, settling in with his head against the window. It’d be a long drive to Quantico listening to Hotch and Rossi bicker up front, and sometimes they were worse than an old married couple. Except Reid’s ears pricked as Rossi spoke.

“How did you even manage to flip a car Aaron? If you were tired you should have stayed another night,” he said, and Reid could hear the huff of Hotch’s breath.

“It was a deer. I was distracted,” he explained quietly.

“Distracted?” asked Rossi, voice almost incredulous.

“We were talking about cult films from the 1990s,” piped Reid from the back, fiddling with the strap on his messenger bag as he spoke.

“What do you know about cult films from the 90s?” asked Rossi, and it was a valid enough question. 

Reid refused to lift his head; not only ignoring Rossi’s confused gaze through the rearview mirror, but also distinctly refusing to meet Hotch’s angry frown. Reid smirked as he ducked his head, and he heard Hotch exhale heavily to calm himself. Before he could speak and end Hotch’s torment, his superior spoke anyway.

“He knows too much,” said Hotch definitively, putting an end to the line of questioning and plunging the car into silence. 

Or at least, silence until Hotch asked about Rossi’s upcoming date and a new argument began as to the best jazz halls in DC. Reid secretly thought Rossi’s choices were better, but he wouldn’t dare voice his opinion. 

**Author's Note:**

> This may or may not be a part of an entirely unwritten Hotch/Reid series I have constantly in my mind, so I won't make anyy promises to write more for them but I'm always thinking of the Notes app of my phone where it's all planned out.
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed! <3 
> 
> Send me love if you did!


End file.
